


Cascade Mountains, 2015

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Mistletoe - Holiday Gifts from wwhiskeyandbloodd [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas fic, Cuddling, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Now do you see?” Hannibal asks again, and Will blinks.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Among the threaded branches, not dead but merely dormant, persistent life bursts blooming forth. Glossy green leaves hang lank across a thick bough, interspersed with bright white berries. And as Will’s glasses fog but his vision clears, he laughs.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Mistletoe?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Mistletoe,” Hannibal confirms, smiling.</i>
</p><p>Based on the story established in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5129003">Hozhoni</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cascade Mountains, 2015

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strangestorys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangestorys/gifts).



> This is a gift from [wiith-my-hands](http://wiith-my-hands.tumblr.com/) to her Secret Santa Buddy [strangestorys](http://strangestorys.tumblr.com/). Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Beta'd by our amazing [Noodle](http://noodletheelephant.tumblr.com/)!

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep.  
And miles to go before I sleep._

Titus navigates the woods like he has lived there all his life. In truth, he has. Several winters now, spent chasing squirrels up trees and barking at them to come down again. Several summers splayed out in the shade of the leaves, enjoying the quiet and space of it all. Will doesn’t know where Titus was bought, but he is pretty sure that the dog doesn’t remember his old home anymore, when he has this one instead.

He slouches along, puffing clouds of warm air before himself as he digs his nose into the snow or woofs quietly to clear the path ahead, keeping Will and Hannibal safe from the legions of woodland creatures.

They walk hand in hand, and Will wonders why this no longer makes him feel nostalgic, for the house with Molly and the pack, walking similarly through forests to reach small streams to fish in together. There isn’t that pang anymore, that tug of wanting to go back to a happiness he had only ever had with one person, because that isn’t true anymore. Hannibal curls their fingers together and Will grins.

That’s not true anymore at all.

Beneath Will's arm is a heavy thermos, sloshing coffee against its insulation in time with their steps. Steeped with chicory and nutmeg, it should taste of New Orleans; it should pull at nostalgic heartstrings threaded to a lifetime before. It doesn't. It tastes of Hannibal's kiss in the mornings as he makes it for Will, his lips softened by sleep and spiced from tasting as he brews.

And for the heat and weight it holds against Will's side, it's not nearly as warm - nor so grounding - as the security of Hannibal on his other.

Titus barks, a single note echoing resonant through the woods, and a flushed hare jolts from its burrow at a run into the distance. Will and Hannibal wait. They watch. Titus woofs low but doesn't move a muscle in chase.

"He's become lazy," Will says, not unkindly. "Fearsome, ferocious, capable, sure. But too spoiled to bother risking the thrill. He’s settled."

“He’s become comfortable,” Hannibal corrects, amused.

Their large dog - always a pup to them, though he stands taller than them both when on his hind legs - lopes forward again, still nosing in the snow. He knows they’re going home, he’s marked this path time and again. In truth, Hannibal and Will could be said to have become lazy. They rarely venture out of the house, preferring their quiet and their solitude. Once in a while, they will drive to the nearest town for a special dinner, for groceries, for a walk among people again.

But Will no longer looks to them and becomes them.

Hannibal no longer looks to them and imagines their taste.

They have retired, both, from their anger and their anguish, and settled into calm and quiet obscurity. Neither would have it any other way. 

Ahead, Titus stops, and before Will can even finish the curse that sits dangling on his lips, the huge dog rolls forward and rubs against the soil. Long legs swing every which way, tail skittering pinecones and dusty snow where it sweeps across the dirt and the dog himself -

“Filthy,” Will sighs. “Terrible, filthy mutt.”

“He’s hardly a mutt,” Hannibal quietly reminds him, nosing against Will’s hair as he snorts, shaking his head.

“But he is filthy,” Will says, brows raising. Hannibal doesn’t argue this, and Will shivers at the heat of his breath as it stirs his hair. “Maybe only slightly terrible.”

“Only slightly,” Hannibal agrees. “The only way in which he is, at all.”

Is it a waste to settle? Will doesn’t ask, but he wonders. When the stitches of centuries weave together a tapestry of fearsome strength within one’s very DNA, and the correct alignment is finally found to reveal the beauty and horror of the unique image within, why turn it to the wall? Could they still, he wonders - together - spill their particular art in scarlet spatters against the ground?

They could. Of course they could, in an intimate dance of blades and blood, kissing violence against the other’s mouth.

“Do you see?” Hannibal asks, and Will’s clouded breath dissipates, held burning in his lungs.

“I see,” Will whispers, brow creased. Hannibal’s hand against his jaw eases a soft sound from Will, who moves where he is guided. His chin is tilted upward towards the canopy of branches above, withered limbs veining black against grey sky.

“Now do you see?” Hannibal asks again, and Will blinks.

Among the threaded branches, not dead but merely dormant, persistent life bursts blooming forth. Glossy green leaves hang lank across a thick bough, interspersed with bright white berries. And as Will’s glasses fog but his vision clears, he laughs.

“Mistletoe?”

“Mistletoe,” Hannibal confirms, smiling. He draws his gloved knuckles over Will’s cheek and strokes a thumb beneath his eye. Before them, Titus woofs loudly and stands, shaking off the worst of the mess that doesn’t cling to him in dripping clumps. They will have to get him into the tub as soon as they come home - the downstairs guest one, that they never use. Will laughs, then, at the dog and the mistletoe and the entire situation, leaning into Hannibal and pressing his cold nose against his cheek.

“Sneaky stuff,” he comments, and Hannibal just lifts an eyebrow, stepping close enough to push to his toes and pluck free a sprig. He shakes it clean of snow and bark and holds it gently in the palm of his hand before Will takes it from him, setting it carefully in his pocket and taking Hannibal’s hand.

“We better get this monster cleaned up.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrow, and he casts them up towards the path ahead. They can see the lights of the house clearly now, they are merely moments from being home. He whistles, just a sharp quick thing, and Titus turns to him, tongue lolling and ears perked up.

“Home,” Hannibal tells him, and Titus rushes off, tail swinging in circles as he takes a corner, to keep himself balanced. He waits obediently by the sliding glass door for them, tail beating the snow behind. “And this is where we begin a very dangerous operation,” Hannibal muses, regarding the enormous dog, the expanse of clean white tile that leads to the guest bedroom and the bathroom beyond.

“Requiring highly specialized skills,” Will says, sibilant sounds held against his teeth, gaze squinted in bracing for the challenge ahead. “You’re faster than I am -” Hannibal hums his pleasure at the compliment, and Will gives him a dry look. “- so you grab his collar when I open the door. He’ll run if you try to catch him now, and you’re not faster than he is.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“If you want to spend tonight cavorting in the snow, be my guest. I’ll go inside, pour a whiskey, and watch.”

“I suppose it’s fair I lead him to his most hated place,” Hannibal muses, setting his hands to the dog’s damp fur and just behind his collar. Titus looks up for pats and gets them, whining happily at the attention. “If you clean my white tile floor up afterwards.”

“I’ll do the floor if you do the bathroom.”

“Agreed, if he is relegated to the couch today and not the bed.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Lecter,” Will mutters, drawing his own hand over his lips as he regards the muddy cold dog before him, doggishly grinning up at them both. “I won’t be the one kept awake by his whimpering to be let in.”

“I’ll resist the urge.”

“And make him a gourmet breakfast to make up for it.”

“Of course.”

“So we’re decided then?”

“Open the door, Will.”

So Will does, and Hannibal, quick on his feet and stronger than Will, maneuvers their enormous hound through the kitchen and to the spare bedroom, thankful - yet again - that he had it laid with tile as well, and not carpet as the upstairs.

Titus doesn’t put up a fight. Though he loves a good game of keep-away, he loves baths, too. More accurately, he loves making an enormous goddamn mess during them and getting to shake all over afterward.

Will tries not to smile as he works off his shoes and thick wool socks, stepping carefully alongside the spattered mudprints to the bathroom.

Hannibal’s hair has fallen to his face, speaking to Titus in low Lithuanian as Will ducks to pick up the blessedly unmuddied rugs. He tosses them out of the bathroom and unfastens his belt. This draws a dark-eyed glance from the older man, who gets a rueful look in response.

“You don’t expect me to go in like this,” he snorts. The rest of his clothes - jeans and wool coat, gloves and flannel shirt - follow the rugs out into a lump in the hallway. In just his undershirt and boxers, Will edges past Hannibal and takes the collar from him, giving him a kiss on the cheek, and Titus a kiss on the head.

“Alright,” Will sighs, tugging Titus up beneath his arms. The bark rings loud enough that both men wince as Will hauls Titus into the tub, and starts the water running. “Put on a fire, would you?”

Hannibal just nods, smiling enough to narrow his eyes, before he leaves the bathroom and closes the door behind himself. It will be as close to a murder scene as either get nowadays when the dog is clean again. Fur on the ceiling and the walls, smears of mud and dripping water. It is an adventure bathing that dog, more so every year that he grows bigger. Another sonorous bark comes from the bathroom and Will’s laughter follows before he starts his usual slow conversation with the dog as he washes him.

He will smell of lavender and hibiscus today, since the dog shampoo is upstairs in their bathroom.

Hannibal avoids the smears of mud from the glass door leading to the bedroom - as promised, Will would take care of that. He goes, instead, to the kitchen to put on a pot of tea before he makes his way towards the fireplace.

The house heats quickly, the windows insulated as the rest of the house is, and the fire is enough in winter to be lit in the evenings and have the house warm until the middle of the next day. He watches the flames take, smiles as he listens to the occasional bark from the bathroom, the water running, splashing, Will’s laughter and curses as it does. Hannibal watches the fire a long time before he peels his gloves off and takes off his scarf and coat. He picks up Will’s from the floor before going to hang them up.

He sees the sprig of mistletoe, sprightly white berries and waxy leaves shining, and plucks it from Will’s coat pocket. It accompanies him to the kitchen, where he seeks out a length of butcher’s string. A bow with a long tail suffices to hang the mistletoe as it hung from its colony in the woods, and Hannibal brings it upstairs.

By the time he returns without the sprig, there’s been another curse, a bark, a loud _thump_ and laughter. Hannibal smiles wide as he listens, divesting himself of the music he’d normally put on to accompany his cooking. He ties on his apron and turns on the oven to preheat. Root vegetables, grown in the garden rear of the house, are severed cleanly with smooth knife strokes. Drizzled in olive oil and dried herbs similarly birthed by their hands, it will yield a rustic and seasonally appropriate arrangement to accompany the parmigiano polenta and Bourguignon chicken.

It’s meditative, cooking has always been, and Hannibal hums to himself as he sets one thing aside and takes up the other. He listens to the sounds in the bathroom, smiles when he hears Will giggle at something the dog does before the sound becomes a shriek of displeasure and Titus barks just to make sound too.

He will come bounding out of the bathroom wet and warm and delighted, and rub himself against the towel Will tosses to the floor before that grows dull and he will seek against Hannibal’s thighs for treats. He’s tall enough that he can almost set his heavy muzzle to the counter, but he’s been taught not to.

Begging, however, is something that seems to be innately ingrained within him.

They hardly help to break him of the habit.

There is a click of the door and a rush of clicking nails and Titus runs into Hannibal’s side and presses his paws against Hannibal’s pants. With a click of his tongue and a gentle gesture of his hand, Hannibal has the dog standing on all fours again.

“Look at you,” he tells him. “Slightly terrible boy.”

Titus whines and shifts on his feet before plonking on his bottom and watching Hannibal with a wide doggy smile. The older man hums and shakes his head before turning to the stove behind him and retrieving the small pan with a sunny side up egg on it. He deposits it atop Titus’ food bowl and sets it to the floor.

“You spoil him,” Will scolds from the doorway, running a towel through his hair as he stands dripping on the tile.

“I’m not the only one who does.”

“True,” Will replies, catching a drop against his top lip with the tip of his tongue. “The bathroom’s all yours to clean.”

“Oh, much obliged,” Hannibal laughs, untying the apron and setting it to the counter. “The floors are ready for you, and you will have to watch our dinner.”

Will squints, as much for lack of glasses as in teasing, and just as Hannibal passes by him, Will snares him by the wrist. Hannibal takes an elegant step back and pivots to face Will, turning their hands together and resting palm to palm. His other hand settles to Will’s back, and Will laughs, scarlet-cheeked, as Hannibal leads him in a box step.

A beautiful and stately man, holding a rugged one in his underthings - and sopping wet, at that. Will can only imagine how they must look. He delights in the fact that there are no others - within miles and miles - to see them. Titus crunches his food happily as they turn together, until Will sets his heels to the floor and brings their lips together in a firm kiss.

“Bathroom,” he whispers as their mouths part.

“Dinner,” Hannibal echoes, and he releases Will with a flourish, turning him in place.

Will laughs, helpless - forever fucking helpless - to Hannibal’s charm and tilts himself forward in a bow, hair dripping against the tile. Hannibal inclines his head in return, and only then turns to gather the things he needs to clean up the ghastly mess left behind by his partner and their hound.

Will just uses his towel to mop up across the floor.

After his dinner, the lazy and spoiled dog makes his way to the fireplace and plonks down in a long groaning line just in front of it, to dry out.

Will shakes his head and bounces his way up the stairs to the bedroom, slipping his underwear free to toss it along with the towels into the hamper in their bathroom. He changes into a clean pair of boxers and a thick hoodie before returning downstairs in the nick of time to pull the vegetables from the oven.

It is a dance, still, between them. Though now it’s become one where they both know the steps. Will executes the preparation of dinner as well, if not as showily, as his husband does. He has almost everything plated by the time Hannibal returns from the spare room and spare bathroom, puffing a piece of hair from his forehead as he goes. WIll knows, without having to look, that both rooms are now spotless, despite the massacre he and Titus had made of them before they left. He looks to the dog, snoring slowly by the fire, belly full and rising and falling in slow deep breaths as he relaxes.

Will could cry, he’s so happy.

It’s all he’s ever wanted, though the shape it’s taken is different than he could have imagined. A safe space. A quiet place. A home and a family to fill it.

What’s more, is that every day he realizes it’s all that he needs.

“Turn the chicken?” he asks Hannibal, smiling when he sees the spatula already in his hand.

They move sleekly around each other, more graceful even than the waltz they performed earlier. Fingertips brush across backs and hips. Lips graze shoulders and cheeks. They plate their dinner - Will notes there’s extra chicken, and smiles a little more - but as Hannibal makes his way towards the dining room, Will stops him.

“By the fire, maybe?”

Hannibal happily goes. Nevermind it means they’ll be eating from their laps. Nevermind that inevitably a big wet nose will come seeking for handouts that will be given without pause. Nevermind that Will’s plate will slip and he’ll have to spear a parsnip from his lap.

Undignified? Perhaps. Graceless? Certainly.

And worth it, entirely, when Will settles his back to the arm of the couch and wedges his feet beneath Hannibal’s thigh.

“Don’t think I missed your little surprise above the bedroom door,” Will murmurs, setting his fork between his teeth, eyes narrowed in a smile.

“I would hardly disregard your keen eyes,” Hannibal replies, smiling up at him. Before them, Titus makes a huge effort to turn from one side to the other, and groans when he manages, stretching his feet out towards them both as he warms his back by the fire.

They eat mostly in quiet, no awkward silences anymore, no ticking timebombs in their hearts that try to match the other and hope, hope that they don’t blow up before the other does and lose them. Slowly, Titus makes his way in stretches and grunts, closer and closer to the couch, until his tail beats against it and his paws push up against Hannibal’s toes.

Titus stands eye to eye with Hannibal, and makes a piggish grunt that seems all too appropriate. Hannibal sighs, patient always, and forks a turnip to offer out. Titus sniffs it and emits a low warbling sound, brief but delightful, and more than enough to make Will hide his nose beneath his hand as he laughs.

The interplay goes on, vegetables offered, then polenta. All are disregarded. Finally, Hannibal sets his tines to the chicken, and closes his eyes as Titus lets out a resonant _woof_. Will snorts when he laughs, shoulders shuddering.

Will is forever the keeper of dogs, the one who teaches Titus good behavior, the one who washes and combs and attends him. Hannibal, however - in a twist of irony not at all lost on either - is the ‘good cop’ between them. It is Hannibal who Titus regards as if the world revolves around him, requiring no more than a look to be on his best doggish behavior. It is Hannibal who spoils him the most, as he does now with a slice of chicken from his own fork.

“I love you,” Will whispers from behind his hand, eyes crinkled in delight. “I really love you.”

Hannibal just narrows his eyes at him, setting his fork down to reach out and stroke Titus’ scruffy muzzle. The dog closes his eyes and growls playfully, bringing his paw up to gently shove at Hannibal’s hand to slip it away.

They gently tussle for a few moments, before Titus whines loudly and Hannibal holds up his finger to hush him. The scruffy tail beats still against the couch and Hannibal turns to Will, leaning over to kiss him, soft at first, deeper after, until he stretches out with a hum of pleasure, plate held carefully so as not to drop to the floor. Hannibal takes it from him, setting his own atop, and with another soft kiss to Will’s lips, he gets up from the couch and clicks his fingers for Titus to clamber on instead.

Will laughs, squirming beneath the weight of the heavy dog that tries to lick his face and neck and behind his ears. Titus succeeds, of course, and Will laughs helpless beneath.

Hannibal watches, fond, before running a hand through Will’s hair and taking their dishes to the kitchen. He does them quickly and sets them to the rack to dry, and drops his hand as a large furry head nudges against his hip.

“Did you wash him?” Hannibal asks, Lithuanian low and warm. “He’s awful about washing behind his ears, I trust you to do it.”

A low rumble comes from Titus in response and Will shifts higher on the couch, draping an arm over the side of it as he watches them converse. Hell if he knows what they’re saying to each other, but each seems to understand the other - Hannibal softly conversational in his native tongue, Titus in his. The big dog drops to lay heavy over Hannibal’s feet as he washes up, taking up so much space between shins and cabinets that Hannibal has to step back a little.

Both men wear scars from the other. Even those caused by the weapons of outsiders are claimed, owned, and kissed by their partner. And as scars form from their own flesh when it heals, so too are their marks a part of them - not different, distant, something else foreign to their bodies, but their own beings worked over in gnarled knots and shining smooth skin to heal the wounds they caused the other.

There have been no new marks left since they defeated their dragon and survived their fall from an ill-formed paradise.

The permanence they leave on the other now is far deeper.

Sinews tangled together, breath and bodies shared, they have healed themselves not with scars but with the other, just as inseparable. Were they to be discovered here, they would flee together or die together. Were they to never be found, they would live out their days resonant with the pulse of the other.

Partners.

Husbands.

Friends.

So much more.

“Titus,” Hannibal says, watching the big dog tap his tail against the floor, large eyes lifting his brows in almost-innocence. “Couch.”

Will stands from it as the big dog whines and leans heavier on Hannibal.

“Couch,” Hannibal repeats, wiping his hands on his towel as he raises an eyebrow at the dog. “I won’t ask you again, you’ve been a very spoiled boy today.”

Titus, entirely aware that he could still be spoiled _more_ , thuds his tail a little harder. Will fights down his smile, cheeks aching, and raises his brows.

“Titus,” he says, a particular tone that draws their dog’s attention and Hannibal’s too. “Couch.”

Toenails click against the floor as Titus shuffles closer, tall shoulders shifting, until with a _flumpf_ he drapes himself heavy on the couch. A whine is intercepted by fingers behind his ears, scratching his cheek, down to stroke his muzzle. Will crouches and murmurs that he’s a very good boy, nuzzling into soft fur to breathe in the earthy scent of clean dog and lavender soap.

Righting himself with a wince, a lifetime of aches and pains always throbbing dull so late at night, Will tucks his hands into his hoodie’s pockets and makes his way towards the stairs. Behind him, the water shuts off. There is a susurrus of Lithuanian, and lights click dark but for the fire, safely heating the house.

Will stops by the doorway to their bedroom, hand against the back of his neck, and raises his brows Hannibal joins him with silent steps.

Brown eyes flick to the mistletoe and a small smile curls thin lips and Will snorts. It’s rare that they can indulge in such silly things as playing pretend at being normal. Flirting like schoolboys, holding close, kissing in the doorway.

“You know -”

“Don’t,” Will laughs, pressing a hand to his face gently. “Don’t, just -”

“Just?” Hannibal steps closer, hands in his pockets, sauntering, cocky and beautiful and strong.

“Just… closer,” Will mumbles. Hannibal steps. “Closer.” Again. “Stay just… there. Just there.”

“Here?” Hannibal smiles, ducking his head to look down. When he looks up, Will’s lips are against his own, hands curled warm in Hannibal’s shirt as he holds him close and kisses him beneath the mistletoe.

Will stumbles a little, as he always does. Hannibal holds him steady, as he always does. Palms against Will’s shoulders to ease his press for closeness, he slowly encircles Will in his arms, and Will wraps Hannibal in his. Their lips sweep together, no sound in the house but the crackle of fire below and the soft clicking of their kiss.

Slowly, Will relaxes back to his heels, bright eyes flashing as he lifts them to Hannibal, and away, cheeks warm. He runs a hand down Hannibal’s arm and twines their fingers to pull him into their bedroom.

Neither say anything. Neither need to. All the pressure and release, ebb and flow, of their separate and tandem existences are known. No one else in the world could understand them so innately.

No one else needs to.


End file.
